


Three Thousand Years Before

by blueslove



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom!Aziraphale, Boys Kissing, Developing Relationship, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Top!Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:27:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21873676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueslove/pseuds/blueslove
Summary: Three thousand years is a long time to wait to some. To others--like Aziraphale--it's not. Not when he's scared of ruining his friendship with a demon as unpredictable as Crowley.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 128
Collections: Apple-bottom Jorts, Hot Omens, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Oh Come All Ye Sinful! A Depraved Holiday Exchange 2019





	Three Thousand Years Before

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VulgarMercury](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VulgarMercury/gifts).



> Prompt: Aziraphale having an existential crisis upon realizing that he's in love or sexually attracted to Crowley (early days preferred). Could lead to self-exploration of sexual things on Aziraphale's part.

_SOME TIME AFTER THE NOT-END OF THE WORLD..._

When it happened isn’t easy to pinpoint, not unlike  _ where  _ and  _ how.  _ The where’s and how’s of all things are--as Aziraphale often reminded himself--ineffable. Part of a bigger picture amongst the turning of the earth, the rumblings in heaven and the tantrums of hell.

Because, as he’d found out, hell did throw its toys on the floor when things didn’t go to plan. 

Crowley can be an excellent example of that when he chooses to be. He’s the root of most of Aziraphale’s problems, but none quite tipped the scales like 1941. He remembers that date  _ perfectly.  _ That’s the day Aziraphale realised he’d been in love with a demon for the past… How long? He’s scared to know. At least then he can pretend it’s recent.

That would be a little bit of a white lie, though. Aziraphale has a strong feeling it’s the first time they had sex, back when Crowley forged those sunglasses and had his hair in ridiculous curls. He remembers it well because it hadn’t been necessarily good. The oil had gone everywhere. Crowley had stubbed his toe on the bedpost and said some very questionable things. It had hurt. By all accounts, he shouldn’t have gotten those telltale feelings then because Aziraphale had actually _cried_ , but it was Crowley’s face that did it. His expression when he saw the tears, the tenderness that melted that stone gaze and the sarcasm. 

It was the first time he’d remotely shown care, and it was probably Aziraphale’s treacherous (and metaphorical) heart that latched onto it. Sex was  _ supposed  _ to be between people that loved each other, but they hadn’t loved each other then, and that’s undoubtedly where his poor heart had gotten confused. Things were different three thousand years ago.

  
Sleeping with a demon hadn’t been so controversial back then--wait, no, it had. He’d just chosen to ignore it, like the feelings he’d caged in his chest until the end of the second world war millennia later. 

“It couldn’t be avoided,” Aziraphale muses to the book in his hand, thumbing through the pages with care. “Three thousand years isn’t too long.”

To some. To others it was. 

He snaps the book shut with a sigh and replaces it on the shelf. Why is he thinking about this now? He’s known since June 6th 1941 that he’s hopelessly in love with Crowley, with a demon _.  _ Talking to the pages of old books isn’t going to help. Maybe, because more pressing things have ended, he stands an actual chance--

No. Preposterous, stupid. Gabriel would have his head. And his balls.

The phone ringing is his saving grace and he drifts towards it instinctively. Anathema is  _ desperate  _ to buy him a modern phone, one with a touch screen and all those fancy gadgets, but Aziraphale is quite happy with his simplistic one. It did its job and didn’t lead to weird and worrying sites when he tapped on an advert. They were straightforward and easy, just the way Aziraphale likes things.

“Hello, my dear,” he greets brightly, tucking the phone under his shoulder and folding his reading glasses neatly. “Are we still on schedule for today?”

“How do you always know it’s me?” Crowley answers with the same tone, conversational and standoffish. “Did you finally get a proper phone?”

“Absolutely not. Those things are hideous.”

“I’d love to know what your idea of pretty is,” comes the dry reply. “‘Cause that crappy dial one you have is not it.”

Aziraphale gasps, only half-joking, and realises with chagrin that he’s smiling. “Right, right. Are you on your way over?”

“Uh--yeah.” There’s the sharpness of a horn in the background followed by Crowley’s yelling, then his voice is directed back to Aziraphale. “Just passing Leicester Square. Put the kettle on, would you?” 

“Is that code for wine?” He asks, knowing very well it is. “I thought you were abstaining.”

“Times change, world was saved, I need a damned drink. What’s the strongest you’ve got?” 

“Absinthe.”

“Perfect, I need my brain wiped. See ya in five.” 

Aziraphale is chuckling when he hangs up and decides that he’ll make tea instead. Or, well, hot chocolate for himself, black coffee for Crowley. A contrast that shouldn’t work but does.

By the time Crowley pulls up outside the bookshop, as always with no regard for passersby, Aziraphale has their drinks in hand and is waiting at the doors. In all his lanky glory, Crowley sidles up the steps, looks at his drink, scoffs, and takes it anyway. “What happened to the absinthe?”   
  


“Fresh out, I’m afraid.” He turns the sign to  _ CLOSED  _ and locks the door before following Crowley into the back. Their little den has been their comfort since after the war, a place for them to sit in solitude and enjoy each others company. Aziraphale can’t get enough of this routine, this normalcy; pretending they’re humans in a world they can never be ‘normal’ in. 

It’s also the place where they can have sex and not worry about the neighbours, or people walking in. At the very least, Aziraphale didn’t have to worry. He suspects that Crowley might actually enjoy that sort of thing. 

Crowley’s already sprawled out on the sofa in typical demonic fashion, one arm draped over the back and legs akimbo. His sunglasses lay on the small stand next to him and, beside it, a small bottle of lube. Aziraphale’s heart throbs.

He chooses the armchair for polite distance, respecting Crowley’s  _ need  _ to spread out. It wouldn’t be him without it, Aziraphale supposes, so he can’t really complain.

“You’ve got a face like a lemon,” Crowley says blandly after a moment, those brilliantly golden-yellow eyes on him, twinkling under the lamp lights. He jabs his thumb at the lube. “Too forward?”

“No! No.” He forces himself away from watching patterns flicker in Crowley’s eyes. “Not at all. This is hardly the first time.”

His forehead crinkles. Aziraphale has a strong feeling he’s remembering how awful their first time was. “Probably for the best.” 

“Probably.”

They sit in comfortable silence, something Aziraphale has learnt to enjoy over the centuries. The first few times had been awkward with the need to fill each second with conversation. He’d never pick silence voluntarily, it’s why he chose to settle his bookstore in one of the busiest places in London, but Crowley… All his company lies in plants and Freddie Mercury on the radio.

“How are your plants?” Aziraphale asks abruptly. “You’re not bullying them again, are you? Those poor things are terrified.”

“Are we gonna make small talk all day?” The sharpness in Crowley’s eyes meet his with an intensity Aziraphale knows well. It could be a means of covering up that he’s bullying the plants again, but all argument dies when the tip of Crowley’s forked tongue swipes at his lower lip. 

It shouldn’t be erotic, but that molten gaze, the way he invites himself so leisurely by parting his knees wider--Crowley’s taunting him. Three thousand years is a long time to perfect how to touch, where to kiss, how to feel; Crowley knows it all. Just like he knows Crowley. 

“Do you want to be dominant tonight?” Aziraphale asks in a bluntness that has eyes rolling. 

“If you’re asking me if I want to fuck you, then yeah. I do.” He reaches over and picks up the coffee cup, head lolling to the side, gaze half-lidded. “You’re the one who gave me the energy.” 

“The ener--?” It clicks when Crowley takes a long sip and sets the cup down again. “Oh, the coffee. Um, well. I’m helping you abstain.”

“Right.” This time he reaches for the lube, patting his thighs like he’s coaxing a shy animal. “Gotta make sure everything’s  _ tickety-boo _ , eh?”    
  


“Be quiet, you fiend.” Aziraphale comes regardless, fighting to keep his expression neutral despite the obnoxious (and excited) grin watching him. The attraction between them is magnetic, accentuated in the way he balances over Crowley’s thighs, hands settling on the back of the sofa with familiar comfort. “It’s a perfectly common expression.”

“Yeah, back in the seventeenth century,” Crowley replies, distracted by running his hands along the outside of his thighs and squeezing a palmful of ass. “You’re a good few years out of date.”

Aziraphale doesn’t rise to that bait. He knows what Crowley is doing by attempting to rile him up but he’s not inclined to give in. Not that easily. Instead, he runs his fingers through the fuzz at the nape of Crowley’s neck, then through that thick, ginger forest to cup his cheeks. 

He smiles. “Are we going to make small talk all day?” 

  
“Shut it.” Crowley tilts his head and lets their lips rest together in a kiss that’s the right side of tender, and both of Aziraphale’s hands tangle in his hair to keep it steady. He parts his lips at the last barrier of consent and suddenly Crowley’s on him like a lion on its prey.

It’s rare for softness to overtake Crowley’s need to feel something, for tousled sharpness on his tongue like he’s memorising being alive. Maybe it’s because they’d brought up the days when they were still young and inexperienced, when Aziraphale’s tears had caused a flash of panic so rarely seen on that cocky face. Whatever it is, he clings to it because--

No, he can’t think about that. Crowley doesn’t love him outside of an artless friendship. This is what Gabriel so fondly calls  _ sexual favours,  _ a means of release when he’s so pent up he could cry. He takes his time with Aziraphale’s fly and trousers because he wants to savour it, make it feel better, not because he’s in love but because they’re friends, or something. He’s glad to be pushed down, thighs thrown over Crowley’s knees, because the last thing that needs to be seen is his face. Crowley isn’t stupid, he’d  _ know _ . 

“Fuck,” comes the hiss when the lube drips over Crowley’s fingers, quickly reciprocated by Aziraphale as the coolness slides down his taint. It’s enough of a shock to banish those emotions immediately. “Better more than less, I s’pose.”   
  
“Yes,” he breathes, cock twitching as the lube is warmed between those lithe fingertips. How many times had those very same fingers taken him apart thread by thread? How many times had he sucked on them, run his tongue over them, had them fisting his cock and his hair and his clothes? “Not like the first time.”

Crowley’s expression changes for a half second, a flick in his direction with eyes that mirror uncertainty. Then it’s gone again, replaced by fake sleaziness. He grabs one of Aziraphale’s knees to hoist over his shoulder instead. “Safe to say we’re way past that point, Angel.”   
  
“I know.” Aziraphale’s chest clenches again at his smile, so small it’s barely there. “But you-- _ oh.”  _

His hands tighten as a finger slips inside, pushing past the ring of muscle slowly. Just one has his body alight with sparks of pleasure as Crowley adjusts him inch by inch, brushing all the right spots and forcing himself deeper. It’s easier with Aziraphale’s knee hooked around him like a lifeline. 

“You’re tight,” comes the absentminded mutter as Crowley watches his finger disappear, right to the knuckle. “It’s like you haven’t opened yourself up in months.”

“I haven’t.” 

Crowley slides in a second finger so abruptly Aziraphale chokes. “What?” 

He doesn’t stop to let him answer, and Aziraphale moans when Crowley’s fingers spread and drive that pleasure further, pulling him even closer and rocking back into his curling fingertips. He’s blissfully unaware of Crowley’s staring until his fingers slow, and Aziraphale opens his eyes again in confusion to meet that honeyed gaze. “Sorry?”

“What d’you mean by ‘I haven’t?’” Crowley asks, voice taut for some obscure reason. 

Aziraphale blinks. “It’s not encouraged unless it’s sex,” he replies, frowning. Why has he stopped? Why is he asking this  _ now?  _ “You know that.”

“Yeah, but I--” Crowley clears his throat and, with it, the confused awe. “Well, yeah, I did. But sex before marriage is also a sin, so we can’t have everything.” 

_ Then marry me. _

Aziraphale covers it with a forced gasp. He’s jumping ahead fifteen steps, and Crowley isn’t that type of person. They’re here for good sex and a way to destress before the not-end of the world; love and marriage is a fantasy. Did it even apply to angels and demons?   
  
“Hey.” The softness in Crowley’s voice makes Aziraphale blink. “Am I hurting you?”

“No.” He pulls him down by the hair, opening his mouth to allow that forked tongue to twist with Aziraphale’s own in the same gentle, lazy way that Crowley’s fingers work him open. And that, Aziraphale reminds himself, is how it’s  _ supposed  _ to be.

It’s not long before the wet slide of Crowley’s fingers against him--inside him--becomes slicker, easier, and the suction of them pulling away is tantalising. Aziraphale’s cock is hard and glistening with precum, dripping and collecting on his belly where his waistcoat is undone and button-up tossed aside, breath coming in short bursts. The quiet is easy and comfortable as Crowley focuses on a condom and lube whilst Aziraphale throws his shoes and suspenders somewhere, anywhere. 

“Why don’t you do this with anyone else?” 

“Sorry?” Aziraphale stares at the dark outline of Crowley against the low lights. His expression is stiff and unreadable, otherwise known as pensive, as he tears the condom wrapper apart. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” he spits, jaw flexing as he slides it on and strokes himself with lube that drips onto the cushions. “Why don’t you let anyone else finger you? Not even  _ yourself? _ That’s weird.”

A flash of hurt, the seep of dread. That forked tongue is like a knife, sharp as his flaming sword. He stares at Crowley with an expression even he can’t decipher. “That I won’t sleep with anyone else?”   
  
“Well, why don’t you?” His demand makes Aziraphale frown. Aside that hurt, a feeling that doesn’t often grace him arises; annoyance,  _ anger.  _

“Because I don’t trust anyone as much as I trust you,” he replies hotly. “I don’t trust myself to do it right, let alone others. There’s nothing wrong with it. Unless you want me to see other people, or--”

_ “No.”  _ A choked gasp resounds, followed by Aziraphale’s fingers carving perfect crescents into Crowley’s still-clothed back. Those golden eyes lock onto the place where he’s grinding against Aziraphale’s ass, cock heavy and flushed like the slow red that’s spreading on Crowley’s neck and across his stomach. 

“You didn’t let me finish,” Aziraphale bites, too proud to beg when Crowley is being so unreasonable _.  _ So stubborn and argumentative that it’s impossible to tell what’s wrong. “You didn’t--”

“Angel.” His eyes flicker up, and once again Aziraphale is lost in a maelstrom of gold. “I don’t want you to see other people.”

“But you--”

“ _ Angel.”  _ And there it is again, that softness so scarcely heard that tugs hard at his heart. Three thousand years and that expression always leaves an indent in his mind, his soul, his physical and celestial being. “Lemme fuck you.”

Aziraphale watches him, trying to read the unreadable. He could say something equally as strange, like “there’s only ever been you” or “I could never”, but he doesn’t. He can’t. Not when there’s still uncertainty in his demon’s eyes. Having a friendship like this would be better than losing it all, wouldn’t it?

So what comes out of his mouth is a simple “alright”, and Crowley’s smile nearly splits his face.

The initial stretch is always the most uncomfortable. Though Aziraphale has acclimated his body (depending on his mood), the burn that follows the feeling of overwhelming fullness takes his breath away. If it hadn’t, Crowley’s face when he presses inside would; the grind of his smooth jaw, the furrow of his eyebrows, eyes shut tight. He’s at his most vulnerable.

Aziraphale sighs when he bottoms out, squeezing his thighs and letting the stickiness of humid breaths wash over him. There’s a feeling in the air, one of something mingling that shouldn’t, but it’s familiar. He likes it and he’s sure Crowley does too.

He reaches up and guides his fingers through Crowley’s hair, soft encouragement to move those slender hips, and those beautiful eyes shoot open. Both uneven pupils settle on him and, with just a glance for confirmation, he moves. 

Crowley’s nose finds the juncture of his neck, hands pulling his legs to sit on his hips, a position that has Aziraphale’s cock jumping in surprise. Each fluid thrust is met with a smooth slap of skin against skin, and Aziraphale can’t deny he loves it, loves each gentle groan and gasp Crowley exhales. Three thousand years and he can never get enough of it. 

“You’re thinking too much,” Crowley’s voice, deep with desire, whispers against the shell of his ear. Aziraphale hiccups when he bites his lobe, hips grinding desperately against his ribs, stomach, waist, hips _.  _ “I can smell it.”

“Sorry,” he manages to mutter back, ignoring the chuckle that reverberates against him as that clever tongue swipes at a bead of sweat on his skin.  _ Heaven save him.  _ “I can’t help it.”

“Help what?” Crowley’s hips stop and suddenly Aziraphale’s moved to his lap, curled around him like a cat. “What’s so important to think about?”

Why is he asking at a time like this? He can’t stop shuddering let alone think straight, and the new angle has every single brush of Crowley’s cock inside him hitting a place that lights his nerves on fire. The bookshop could be burning again, melting to the ground in a pit of ash and embers, and Aziraphale doubts he’d notice. Not when he has a demon--his demon--with him, inside him. Three thousand years and it’s never changed. 

Aziraphales’s jaw snaps shut. “Why don’t you want me to see other people? You said--”    
  


“I know what I said,” Crowley bites back, defensive, but the sharpness dissipates when his lips press to his collar bone. His hands dig under Aziraphale’s ass, lifting him in such a way that each thrust has his back arching. “I don’t want you to.”

“But--but  _ why?”  _

“Not now.” 

Aziraphale’s heart sinks. It’s such a contrast to the pleasure that his body is ripped fifteen ways at once. The moans turn wet, the sobs more prominent, there’s a dampness on his skin that hadn’t been there before. Maybe he can pass it as indescribable pleasure but, deep down, he knows what it is. He’s been in love with Crowley since 1941, since before it, and in three thousand years his attitude hasn’t changed. He’s still the same obnoxious, sarcastic, aloof demon he was in Eden. Aziraphale wants something he can’t have and it’s  _ killing  _ him _.  _

“Then maybe we shouldn’t continue this.”

The thrusting stops with such an abruptness that Aziraphale bounces. His face is tucked into the damp skin at Crowley’s neck so he doesn’t see his expression at first, but feels it. It’s a heaviness that drenches the room, one that hitches his breath. “Are you crying?”

The calmness in his voice returns and Aziraphale can’t take it. He can’t understand why now of all things, why he bursts after so long, but his body moves back instinctively. His face turns away as he glares at the wall, ignoring the burning behind his eyes. “You’re giving me whiplash. I can’t ever decide if you want me or not. You never want to talk and we  _ need  _ to talk, Crowley.”

The silence that follows afterwards makes the wrenching in his heart worse. Even the best in Aziraphale remains quietly nervous. An angel is built for renewed optimism but he may as well be native; he’s not scared but  _ terrified  _ of stopping whatever it is they have. He shouldn’t have said anything at all, he’s too scared to ruin things, and yet what Crowley said can’t slip by. Not like all those quips and comments did for years before. 

He doesn’t want him to see other people but doesn’t want him to stay. He doesn’t want to think about it and never pursues anything more. Three thousand years is a long time to decide, even to Aziraphale, and although he had been  _ okay  _ with them being friends the lines are blurring. Crowley is giving a hundred mixed signals and he can’t--he can’t--

“I’m sorry. You’re right.” 

Aziraphale stiffens. Although Crowley isn’t a typical demon (there’s still aspects of an angel in him, aspects that he vehemently ignores) it’s rare for him to push aside his pride and admit to his wrongdoings. It’s the type of person that Crowley has always been and he doubts it will ever change, but he says it with an underlying tenderness, holds Aziraphale tighter in a way that feels possessive and makes his heart skip a beat. Within seconds he’s forgotten what he was angry about in the first place. 

Crowley shifts, a movement that rips a huff from each of them, and then Aziraphale’s face is turned to look at him. Even through the tearful blur that golden glow seeps through him until it’s the only thing he can look at, think of. A pocket of time where the only thing that matters is them.

He’s watching him carefully, gaze skipping over Aziraphale’s face like he’s trying to decipher an encryption. It’s such an earnest expression that the tension melts from Aziraphale’s shoulders in moments. 

“I guess it’s time we talk, right?” Crowley continues, voice low. “But it’s a tad bit hard when I’m inside you.”

Aziraphale laughs wetly, sniffling and reaching up to brush away the tears with the back of his hand. This isn’t enough to repair what he said but it’s confirmation; the closest he’s ever gotten to talking about everything that’s gone wrong, everything they could be. He takes it and holds it tightly in the palm of his hand. 

“Alright,” is his reply, and once again buries his face in Crowley’s collarbone, letting the walls disintegrate around them.

* * *

“Did you mean it?” Aziraphale asks some time later, voice laced with fatigue as he adjusts his waistcoat and shirt. “That we can talk.”

Crowley has his back to him, pointedly snatching the full bottle of absinthe from the top shelf of one of the many cupboards, and busies himself opening it. Fear creeps up in Aziraphale like it always does, that Crowley will sidestep again and they’ll go through several thousand more years with things staying unspoken.

But then, “Yeah, I guess. What do you wanna talk about?”

“I doubt I need to tell you,” Aziraphale replies flatly, buttoning the last few holes and miracling away the wrinkles. “It’s been three thousand years.”

It’s a shot in the dark, not a certainty. There must be a part of Crowley that knows what he means, there had to be a part of him that senses it. He knows their love isn’t mutual, and maybe he’s clasping at loose threads, but his tenderness had to mean something, didn’t it? Stopping when Aziraphale cried, promising him they’d talk, treating him well--Crowley isn’t someone who extends that graciousness often. Everyone knows that.

“Yeah.” He looks over his shoulder, watching Crowley pour the drink into two glasses. It’s not nearly enough to make them incoherent but will take the edge off. Aziraphale can’t help but smile as Crowley knocks back his glass in a few sips and clicks his tongue. “Look, Angel. It was you who was so worried about what Heaven thinks and now you’re throwing it all away again?”

A spark of hope leaps in Aziraphale’s chest. He knows what he’d said but this was before everything else happened, this was before-- “You convinced me that we’re on our side, didn’t you? We’re leading a normal life. I never pursued anything before because I was scared to. I’m not scared anymore.”

“And now you’re ready I’ve gotta be too?”

Aziraphale winces. That’s not what he was getting at but it’s Crowley’s defensiveness that shines through like the pale moon. It’s part of his nature, his very personality. “I mean I’m willing to wait, if that’s what you need. If you want to pursue something more.”

Crowley snorts and looks over his shoulder too, eyes lidded and glowing. His smile stretches lopsidedly. “I’m always trying to pursue something more.”

“You--what?” Aziraphale’s mind is whirling now. He skims over their years together, their hopes and dreams and all the nights in this bookstore. “You’re completely contradicting yourself. You were cross with me less than ten minutes ago because I wasn’t--I wasn’t copulating with anyone else!”

_ “Copulating?”  _

“You know what I mean!” He turns around just as abruptly, staring hard at the desk in front of him, at the telephone and the mirror on the wall. Crowley is as hopeless as Aziraphale is with his feelings. “You say one thing and do another. I can’t understand you, Crowley, and I can’t understand why you keep doing this.”

The silence that fills the room is heavier than before, rough with emotion as Aziraphale tries to decipher what he couldn’t before. As always, it’s useless; it never works. Crowley isn’t someone he can read or use his empathy to figure it out for him. What Crowley thinks and says are locked in different sections of his heart, and it’s difficult to know if he himself knows what he wants.

“I wrecked my car for you.” Aziraphale startles and finds himself meeting Crowley’s eyes over his shoulder again. This time, that gold is clouded with thoughts and--astonishment? “I went to Heaven and pretended to  _ be  _ you. I literally looked Satan in the eye and gave him the finger for you. You think I’m gonna sit here and say ‘oh, wait! I don’t care enough!’? Maybe I was out of line with what I said but if you don’t tell me what you want either, how am I supposed to know? Anathema’s the one with the fucking crystal ball.” 

They meet each other’s eyes evenly. The unending stare would be enough to frighten most people away, but Aziraphale challenges him with equal calmness. Slowly, but surely, the heaviness in the room rises again until it’s the two of them inside the bookshop, with nothing more than pure, raw feeling.

And, as unfortunate as it is, Aziraphale finds himself smiling. “I want to pursue something. The miscommunication may be both our faults, to be fair.”

Crowley’s face draws into a thin smile too. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say. I’ve been giving signals for years.” 

“How many years?”

Crowley rolls his eyes and gulps down Aziraphale’s drink too before turning to face him fully. The flush along his neck stretches to his cheeks as he leans against the shelves, resting against his palms with a certainty Aziraphale hasn’t seen in a long, long time. “Three f’ing thousand. Three thousand years I’ve been waiting for you and I’ll be damned if I say no now.”

“Well, technically speaking, you  _ are  _ damned, my dear.” 

Crowley’s laughter echoes as Aziraphale grabs his coat from the back of a chair and turns too. Their eyes lock again as he pulls it on, and Crowley doesn’t even blink.

“What do you say to discussing this over dinner?”

“The Ritz?”

“The Ritz.”

He shrugs, reaching to grab his coat too and beats Aziraphale to the door. “I can roll with that.” 

For the first time in three thousand years, a lightness envelopes Aziraphale’s heart as he watches Crowley saunter away. They have centuries of conversations to discuss and, really, he can’t find it in himself to care how long it takes. Even if they have to stay at the Ritz all night, all weekend. 

And, as he follows Crowley out the door and locks it behind him again, his certainty lies in the knowledge that the next time they come back things will be a little different.

**Author's Note:**

> AND THERE WE HAVE IT!
> 
> This is my first time ever writing these two, and one of the only times I've ever written smut, but I think it went pretty well! I hope you like this, Jen! It differed slightly from your prompt but I tried to weave it in as much as I could! 
> 
> Come find me on social media @charlsteas!


End file.
